Rings
by Taattosbt
Summary: Eleven facts about the Nazgul, their rings, and the connections between them. Continued in vignettes from each of the Nazgul's experiences during the Third Age.
1. The Facts

1) If he had to do it again, Angmar would accept his ring again. He would, however, stop Sauron from making the one ring. It was never worth it.

2) Khamul accepted Sauron for his ideals, but accepted his ring for the immortality. Sometimes he thinks of taking his ring off, but he will never give up on the ideals.

3) When Dwar put on his ring he felt utterly connected to his fellows. Like a wave in the ocean.

4) Ji Indur technically won his ring in a poker game. Sauron wanted to give it to him, but they were at a feast past midnight and Ji Indur thought it would be fun. It was.

5) Akorahil's ring is in the shape of the Great Eye. He sees it as a completion. Akorahil is blind, but sees through the veil. Sauron is an eye, but he can never see what is right in front of him.

6) The sapphire in Hoarmurath's ring is cold. It reminds him of home. He does not always want to be reminded.

7) Adunaphel's ring is an engagement ring. She has no wedding ring.

8) Ren tattooed a musical note on the knuckle just above his ring. It reminds him of what he is fighting for: the right to sing a different tune.

9) Uvatha does not understand why people say his ring makes him a slave. To him his ring is freedom. Forever on the back of a horse. And sometimes a fellbeast.

10) They all knew what they were doing.

11) None of them can think of a better group with whom to spend eternity.

* * *

_Lord of the Rings_ and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.


	2. Angmar - TA 1050

The sun tinted the sky as Angmar clawed his way out of the tomb.

It was a hard climb. It took much of his strength to break the granite. Then there was the iron grate. He rested before he tried it. He sat for he knew not how long, his back against the sarcophagus. He braced himself and pried the metal open. He rested again on the ledge overlooking the pit. Then there was the incline and a second grate.

He clung, panting, to the rock face. Despite the difficulty, every one of his actions held a certain wonder. They were, after all, things he never expected to do again.

He slid down the wall and waited. He had waited so long in the darkness. Most of the time he did not know what he was waiting for. Death forgot him. And Sauron was lost.

He remembered a millennia of nothing much. It was fading now like a dream in the daylight, but he remembered darkness and thinness in his being. It did not feel like a millennia at the time. It didn't really feel like anything. Just quiet and calm.

It took him a few minutes to realize the darkness had changed. It had substance. It was actual darkness, not nothing. And rather than floating infinitely he was confined in a very small body in a very small space.

Angmar looked down at his body. All he could maintain was his human form. He looked as he did when he first took the ring. But now there was dust on his face and cuts on his hands. He had no finery now. Only the dark cloak buried with him preserved his modesty. And his ring, of course.

He felt so limited. So overwhelmed. There were so many sensations. The air cold in his lungs, his hair moving in the breeze, the sounds of some birds nesting in a crag above him.

Most of all he felt small. He looked out over mountains, and forests, and rivers, and lakes. The whole world stretched out in front of him. He was just one man huddled on a rock face. And the sun was rising.

The sun was warm, and that was nice. But the sun held him back from his preferred form. He wanted to be a wraith. It would certainly make getting down from his prison easier. The world and the sun had other plans.

He settled down to wait for sunset.

He heard Khamul before he saw him. The other man clambered out of the tomb and sat beside Angmar. Khamul leaned against him, catching his breath. They watched as the world woke up.

The sun touched more and more, revealing a map Angmar remembered well. At various times his life had centered on this nation or that fortress. There was the Anduin. Then the Greenwood. It looked different, but maybe he was remembering incorrectly. Following the river, further south there was Lorien. Rohan's rolling hills. Then more mountains. His favorite mountains.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Khamul looking in the same direction. South-east.

Khamul reached over and gripped Angmar's left hand tight. That was one sensation he could deal with. Angmar's ring glinted in the sun as he added to their small connection. When they were wraiths they could feel, sometimes even think as one. But for the moment this was enough. Together they looked across the vast at Cirith Gorgor and the Morannon.

The first sentence Angmar spoke in one-thousand and fifty-two years was: "We're going home."

* * *

_Lord of the Rings_ and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

A reviewer and several follows/favorites have encouraged me to continue this story. There will be one short chapter for each of the wraiths, each showing a moment in their lives during the Third Age. If you have ideas, suggestions, requests, etc. I would love to hear them.

Thank you all and I hope you enjoy.

Sincerely,

Taattosbt

P.S.

I am aware that Peter Jackson invented the business with the tombs. However, I like the idea of such a traumatic return from the shadows. Indulge me if you will.


	3. Khamul - TA 3018

The farmer had mushrooms on the fire. That much Khamul could smell. He'd stepped outside to get more wood when Khamul rode up. The man's dog began barking but cowered in the door whimpering as the black breath hit it. The farmer retreated as well, letting his axe fall from his hand.

Asking directions certainly was a hassle in his wraith form. Rather than make the man wait while he translated a whole question into Westron, Khamul rasped out, "Shire. Baggins." It might be the common language of half the world, but he came from the other half.

"Th-there's no Bagginses 'round here." The farmer stuttered. "They're up in Hobbiton."

Khamul waited. This was the edge of the map. Nothing of interest strategically. How was he supposed to know where—or for that matter what—Hobbiton was?

The man extended a shaking finger, "That way." Then he fled inside to join the dog.

Khamul spurred on his horse.

A mile down the road he could still smell the mushrooms. Or at least remember the smell vividly. It reminded him of the curries of his homeland. He would have added a pinch of mustard and some coconut, but the farmer was on track with the peas and onions.

Strictly speaking he did not need to eat, but it was fun. From time to time he and Hoarmuth would revert to their bodies and eat a meal together. Eventually it became a game. Each would bring a dish from their homeland. Then they would sit down, eat, and compare them. In Khamul's opinion the similarities outweighed the differences. When you got right down to it cooking was just some ingredients and heat applied in various ways. And the ingredients weren't really all that different from culture to culture.

And yet everyone described the world as the West and the East. The dark and the light.

That was where they got the idea for the cloaks. The cards were on the table. Angmar, Adunaphel, and Akorahil had finally stopped pretending to be loyal Numenoreans. How they managed to fool people as long as they did was a mystery. Now all nine of them could stand together for the first time.

Ji Indur suggested it. He always had a flair for the dramatic. Everyone said they were servants of darkness so why not go all out? Sauron taught them how to shift their forms early. They were going to have to do it when their physical bodies died, anyway. Always thinking centuries ahead. Khamul liked that about his master. No matter what happened Sauron had a plan. And he always had their backs.

In any case, they all agreed on black. It took some cajoling. Adunaphel wanted red (her favorite color), and Dwar wanted blue (which was his). Akorahil wouldn't vote through pure lack of interest. Color did not translate when one looked through the veil, and his human form couldn't see it either. Indur stood his ground. He did not often set his mind on things—he was a carefree sort—but when he did they happened.

And that was how their imposing uniforms came to be. Not for any practical reason, simply a commentary on oppressive binaries. And that is what it was all about, wasn't it? Long, long ago a choir demanded perfect harmony, but one tenor wouldn't stop whistling his own tune.

Now the black armor, cloaks, and horses scared everyone they came near half to death. Well, those and the black breath. Most people did not register he social commentary. Khamul often forgot it himself. It was easy to think of the other side as totally alien. Things rather than people. It was easy to enjoy that farmer's fear. That was when his cloak came in handy.

It reminded him of why he took up his ring. When all he wanted to do was rain death and destruction upon those who done him wrong—those who had done Sauron wrong—it reminded him of the wrongs he had done in his time. It reminded him that the East and the West were more connected than divided. Not two worlds but one.

After all, that farmer and he shared at least one skill: they both knew how to cook mushrooms.

* * *

_Lord of the Rings_ and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Many thanks to fantasychica37 and everyone else who reviewed for encouraging me to update so soon.

Thank you for the review, anon. I think I was the only person in the theater to think "Yes! That's brilliant!" during the Nazgul's tomb scene. I understand the complaint that it is blatantly not canon, but I'm a sucker for details on all things Mordorian. Canonical and non-canonical alike. Anyway, I'm glad this story made it a hair more bearable for you. Thank you again. - Taattosbt


	4. Dwar - TA 2941

The warg heaved under Dwar's hand. Her breath was hot on his knee. She tossed her head in his lap, her eyes squeezed shut. He cooed to her as he drew his hand down her side.

"Good girl. That's my girl." Ghash murmured from her position between the wolf's legs. She too had a hand in her coat, still and careful not to catch the spines.

Dwar glanced down. Four pups already. They were nearing the end.

The wolf lifted her head and licked her newborns. The contractions hit again and she threw herself back onto Dwar's thigh. He was ready with comfort.

"Good girl. That's it." Ghash petted the warg. "Come on. If I can do it you can do it." Her face lit up and she moved her hands to catch the next pup. "Yes. Good girl."

"I didn't know you had children." Dwar smiled down at the captain. He used to pride himself on knowing all about his warg riders, but there were so many now. And he was older than he was an age ago.

She nodded, "A son."

"How old?"

"Six." She looked down at the warg again. "Good girl. Is that all?" Ghash ran her hand over the warg's belly. "It feels like that's all."

As if in answer the warg shook herself. She swung her head down and licked at the puppies again as they crawled to her teets.

Dwar sat back. "Is he looking forward to the puppies?"

"So very much." Ghash stood. She gathered a pitcher and a bowl and settled herself in, for lack of a better term, the window. Really it was just a missing wall that overlooked Mirkwood. Dol Guldur still needed work. In the meantime the crumbling fortress offered spectacular views. Ghash washed the blood from her hands. The dying sun streamed into the tower. It glowed on her blue skin and reflected gold off the water. "He wants to raise one as a mount. He keeps saying he'll follow me into the cavalry when he grows up. "

Dwar patted the warg one last time. She was more interested in her litter, so he went to join Ghash. "What do you think?"

She passed the bowl to him. "I think there'll be fewer arrows aimed at him if he follows his father." Dwar looked up from cleaning his hands. "Med corps." Ghash explained.

"Doctors." Dwar smiled. "The pride of every parent." He dried his hands on his cloak. His ring tugged at the loose threads. Angmar would disapprove, but Dwar was never one to value decorum over utility. Besides, blood was blood. It mattered little whether it came from a battle or a birth.

Ghash laughed. "Well, he's young. Dreams change. You never know where life is going." She sighed. "And if I do my job right, by the time he grows up, there won't be a need for warg riders."

Dwar nodded. "That is the hope." Sometimes he forgot that everyone was looking for peace. The disagreement stemmed from who should rule it.

"General?" Ghash spoke softly. "May I ask a question?"

Dwar nodded.

"What did your parents hope for you?"

Dwar's breath fell from him in an uneven chuckle. "Morgoth. I can barely remember." He leaned back. His ring clinked against the stone floor when his hand took his weight. He glanced back at it. "They certainly never imagined this. They were fishermen—I was a fisherman." He corrected himself. Dwar's lips twitched in bemusement. "Then I was a pirate for a while."

Ghash's brows shot clear to her hair line. "You never do know." She sat straighter and looked him in the eye. "Forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but I think they would be proud. I would be proud."

Dwar sat forward again. He looked down at his hands. "No presumption at all." He thought for a moment more, then turned to her and added, "Thank you."

Ghash stood. She came to attention and saluted him. "Thank you for your help, sir." She relaxed. "I have dinner and a very excited son waiting for me. Good evening."

"Good evening, Captain." He looked back over Mirkwood. Just as Ghash was about to leave he called back to her, "And congratulations."

She dipped her head and left.

Dwar drooped his shoulders forward, his legs dangling over the tree tops below. Some stable hands would be in soon to look after the new mother. In the meantime he enjoyed the quite contentment of the room.

The sun was sinking into the trees. He felt stronger in anticipation of the night. Yet, the sunset was beautiful enough that he wished it to linger. The sky was, of course brilliant, but what held his attention was the trees. Mirkwood rolled in peaks and shadows almost to the horizon. The trees crested in light and dove into shadow. Time and again a capricious breeze would whisper through the leaves, causing the forest to shiver.

In this light, the trees looked like the ocean of his home.

He let his mind wander. And wander. And wander. Out further and further. His body faded, and the darkness beneath his cloak thickened. He floated half way between a man and a wraith.

The warg snorted and curled herself around her puppies. He was chilling the room. Dwar edged away from her and shaped his aura around her as best he could. Satisfied, she licked at her whelps once more.

Dwar turned his thoughts to his comrades. He felt them scattered across the world. Like pinprick stars in the night sky.

Angmar was one tower over. He was so close Dwar could almost hear him thinking and muttering over maps and troop reports and supply lists. Or maybe it was an educated guess based on centuries of fellowship. Agmar never wasted a moment. Workaholic, that one.

Adunaphel was the next closest. He expected to find her in Dol Guldur. He didn't. She was wandering far to the north. Close to Thranduil's holdings. What on earth was she doing there? Oh, well. Adunaphel was a wild one, but she always got the job done. Sometimes it did not get done according to plan, and sometimes it was not the job you asked for, but she always worked in Mordor's best interests. Even if Sauron did not agree with what she considered his best interests.

Khamul was halfway to the Morannon, enjoying the open road. He was in Rohan, so he best not enjoy it too much.

Ji Indur, Akorahil, Hoarmuth, Ren, and Uvatha were all in Barad-dûr. Their light was faint, but gathered as they were they shone strong. Dwar swept his eyes over the forest-ocean once more. The sun was gone, but the sky was pale blue. The forest was black. Each tree melted into the next. It was more an ocean than ever.

Images and memories flitted through his head, stirred by the evening's conversation. One in particular struck him: the light house on the cliffs over his home village. Now, on the pretend ocean, his fellows were that lighthouse.

He closed his eyes and sank into his sea.

* * *

_Lord of the Rings_ and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.


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